


Waiting Game

by Microdigitalwaker



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fix-It, Friendship, Future, Hospitals, M/M, Waiting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2019-11-05 20:57:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 5,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17926217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Microdigitalwaker/pseuds/Microdigitalwaker
Summary: Waiting for Szymanski to get out of surgery, Nick Donnelly runs into an unexpected friend.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cognomen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cognomen/gifts).



> For Cognomen, who loves Nick and Bill as much as I do.

The waiting area is nice, Nick Donnelly supposes.  More like that of a good hotel than a hospital. The small groupings of couches and chairs are used by families awaiting the results of a loved one's surgery; he feels conspicuous by his aloneness.  It can't be helped, not with the sudden nature of Bill's emergency, not with both sets of folks living in Boston as they do.  He unfolds the sweaty slip of paper he's been carrying, glancing at the short series of letters and numbers he'd memorized hours ago.  There are monitors scattered about the room, announcing the status of surgical cases.  It reminds Nick uncontrollably of the butcher shop around the corner from their apartment, where they sometimes pick up steaks for themselves and chicken livers for Calvin, their cat. 

Given the time of their arrival, Bill's surgery is one of the last of the day.  Nick sees the families and friends meeting with surgeons.  He tries not to notice how often they react with sobbing rather than tears of joy but he can't help keeping track, discerning a ratio of good to bad.  When he notices that a percentage of them give the surgeons grim, thin lipped nods, as if the surgery went neither bad nor well, a kind of exhausted limbo of reactions, that's when he stops keeping track.

Deciding to stretch his legs, he goes in search of coffee.

*

The overhead flurescent light blinks irregularly, making that sound that makes Nick Donnelly want to discharge his firearm.  Watching the paper cup pop from the coffee vending machine and clatter to the floor as steaming liquid pours uselessly makes Nick grateful that this is a hospital, that he's off duty and therefore not carrying his Luger.  Instead of unleashing a hail of bullets, he white knuckle grips the sides of the vending machine, resting his forehead against its brightly lit plastic front.

"You gonna kill that thing or marry it?"


	2. Chapter 2

The voice is familiar and, moreover, warm and faintly amused and so Nick doesn't follow through on his first impulse, to turn and deck the stranger with clenched fists.  Instead, he stumbles, falling against what feels like a comfortably upholstered brick wall.  Strong arms catch him, slinging him into an improbable, impromptu dip.

"Agent Donnelly, we can't keep meeting like this," his rescuer quips, adding a cute wink which makes Nick laugh out loud only it turns into a desperately muted sob.

Righted on his feet, Nick's left shoe connects with the errant coffee cup, sending it rolling down the hall and Fusco, little Detective Fusco, formerly from the precinct, thoughtfully waits until Nick's steady before chasing it down.  Beneath the loud blinking flurescent light, Fusco crushes it, tossing it into the nearby recycling bin.  "Two points."

Nick nods, trying to smile but can't.  Fusco gives him a long look, something Nick would normally hate.

"Szymanski?"

Nick nods.  He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand, noticing that Fusco's different.  Some of it is the guy's clothes, a nice pair of jeans that complimented his stocky legs and chunky ass, a shirt that's a deep blue that brings out his eyes and fits as if bespoke.  And topping it off is an equally well fitting bomber that looks hard used but gently cared for, the leather gleaming mellowy under that damned, fucking bulb!

It takes a few seconds to understand that he said 'damned, fucking bulb' out loud.  He's embarrassed to lose his cool any time but Fusco nods.

"I can't stand that either. Someone ought to fix it.  The coffee vending, too."  Says it firmly, as if addressing an invisible repair worker.

Giving up on the coffee, Nick reaches for the slip of paper with Bill's surgery number, oddly comforted that it's still there, in the bottom of his pocket.  "Gotta go," he says, soft and hollow. "Waiting, uh, Bill... surgery..."  He takes a deep breath. "Nice seeing you, Fusco."

As he turns around to backtrack to the waiting room he stumbles again, this time Fusco catching his arm.

"I'm going to pick up a food delivery, see," Fusco says, tucking Nick's hand into the crook of his elbow, patting it gently. "Let's walk together, huh?  Looks like you can use some more substantial than coffee so you can have my Big Mac if you split the fries."

Before Nick can answer, his stomach does it for for him and this time they both can laugh.  Tightening his grip on Fusco's arm, they start walking.


	3. Chapter 3

It's gone dark outside and the vast waiting room is dark, too, except for the pools of light from the scattered lamps and the cool glow of the monitors.  Fusco excuses himself, going to wait in the lobby for the food delivery and Nick heads for the information desk.  The only employee, a tall, slender person of indeterminate gender, looks almost startled to see that there's anyone left.  They are pleasant, though; Nick feels better somehow.  He's never been a community joiner (unless you count the FBI),  but it's comforting that a fellow LGBTQ is there; he doesn't complain as they curse quietly at their computer as they attempt to pull up Bill's status.

Morgan, according to their name tag, grins broadly at him from behind the desk.  "Mr. Szymanski was just wheeled into recovery. From here it looks like things went well.  His surgeon will be down in a bit to tell you more."  Then they frown and Nick wants to shake them, yelling,"What?!?" but he manages to take a deep breath and ask softly.

To give Morgan credit, they immediately look crestfallen, hurrying to assure Nick that nothing was wrong, only the hospital is out of private rooms and will be placed in a recovery ward with at least three other patients.  "It means you can't stay with him overnight. But maybe a private room will open tomorrow or the day after."

Nick nods.  He could apply pressure,  say that Bill's surgery is the result of injuries suffered in the line of duty,  damn it.  That they had both fucking been shot but it isn't Morgan's fault that a pair of double decker tourist buses had collided the day before, filling local hospitals to capacity.

He croaks, "Thanks," and returns in time to find Fusco unpacking the food.  He  wonders if he can eat now that the gnawing sense of guilt he's kept at bay is now in the forefront of his mind.  He wonders if he could unburden himself on Morgan, a person perhaps more knowledgeable and sympathetic than Fusco, who Nick recalls was once married and had, obvious to anyone, had feelings for Joss Carter.

Sitting, Nick is struck again by Fusco's appearence, the subtle air of being well cared for that the detective had lacked on their first acquaintance.  Nick's notion that he's taken good care of Bill was dashed, oh, eight hours previously, when Bill had returned from the corner bodega drenched in sweat, his nearly invisible freckles in stark relief against the wey color of his face.  Bill, who had been running to get the Sunday papers and bagels, who would buy energy drinks, teasing Nick about his need to replace vital fluids and electrolytes before going on to round two of lovemaking.  Said it in his deepest, most solemn voice, his car insurance voice, Nick liked to say, teasing back.

But had that morning's vigorous sex caused the torsion of Bill's bullet-damaged intestines?

Fusco looks alarmed when he looks up from the food.  "Oh, man, Nick..."

"Let's eat," Nick says, orders really.  "Bill's ok.  He's ok."

He repeats it like a mantra, soundlessly, until he can breath again.


	4. Chapter 4

Nick fills Fusco in, about the bullet that had pierced Bill's guts five years before and the twisted bowel that been the cause of today's emergency surgery. 

"When they open you up, you get scar tissue."

Fusco looks familiar with the concept but doesn't comment save a pained look.  He shuffles the paper bags on the little coffee table next to the couches where they are sitting.  "I'm sorry, Agent Donnelly."

For some reason, the professional title he'd held with such pride feels wrong, bad, like if he'd become a history professor instead of joining the Bureau, Bill wouldn't be upstairs, filled with tubes.  "You can keep calling me Nick, it's fine.  Bill and I are both retired."

"Thanks, Nick.  My old partner and I are retired, too.  Bullets and explosions have a way of making that happen."

"Car crashes."

"Huh?"

"Car crashes, too.  Say, your old partner...?"

"John?  John Riley."

"Legs for miles and cheekbones that would've made Michelangelo cry," Nick says distantly, adding that this is how Bill describe Fusco's old partner.

Instead of being taken aback, Fusco grins.  "That's our John.  He's doing great, by the way.  He married my best friend, Sameen, and they've adopted a daughter, Genrika.  They have a farm, a huge place where they take care of retired police horses.  See, when police age out, a lot of times they are auctioned off.  Maybe someone nice gets them or maybe a slaughterhouse does.  Right now they've got about fifty horses, enough so they have a farm manager and a half dozen farm hands on staff.  Those horses live like kings; God knows they deserve it."

"I..."  Nick leans close. "I always thought maybe John played for, uh, my team."

Fusco chokes on the sip of Coke he's taken.  "John's very private, so all I can say is that he and Sameen are making a go of it.  A pretty damn successful one, at that.  Maybe being out of the city is part of it, out of the law enforcement business. I think having a kid, a white picket fence, has brought John peace.  Not to mention the damned Noah's ark they've got; can't take a step without tripping on a cat or a chicken or a dog, much less the horses."

Bill thinks a single house cat is enough but to each his own.  He points to Fusco's Coke, stomach growling.  "Got anything for me?"

"The order got screwed up," Fusco explains, chuckling.  He opens up the second of three bags, pulling out a sausage egg and cheese Mcmuffin and a hashbrown.

"You can have the rest of my Coke or..."

Fusco pushes a large mocha frappe towards Nick, who grabs it.  Pulling off the little plastic dome, he downs a gulp, not caring about the whipped cream moustache he's getting.  This, exactly this meal is his fast food kryptonite.  Before he can contemplate this strange coincidence, he fells muffin in three huge bites.  He pauses deliberately, then drinks, slowly this time his intense, some say driven, need to satisfy his curiosity battling with his guilt.  The internal fight is interrupted by the gruffly sympathetic man beside him.

"What's wrong?"

Wiping his mouth with a paper napkin, Nick shakes his head.  "Nothing. Nothing you'd understand."

After masticating and swallowing an enormous wad of fries, Fusco burps.  "So try me.  I mean, what will it hurt?"

"It's a guy thing."

Fusco laughs, waving his hand over his short, chubby body like a devotee of Vanna White. 

Nick blushes, saying under his voice, "A gay guy thing."

He thinks maybe Fusco will chuckle but he doesn't.  Instead, his eyebrows furrow and he sort of gasps.  "You think it was your fault."

Nick looks away, shrugs his shoulders.

Fusco hesitates, then speaks up quietly. "Unless you were fisting him, elbow deep, I don't think you hurt him.  See, if the rectum is Coney Island and the stomach's the Brooklyn Bridge, Bill's guts probably kinked up around Midwood or Sunset Park.  Same borough, totally different neighborhoods."

Bill sighs.  "That's awfully presumptuous of you, Lionel.  Perhaps it wasn't Bill being penetrated.  Some of us are flexible, you know."

Slurping the last of his drink, Fusco winks.


	5. Chapter 5

Maybe it's the high fructose corn syrup and caffeine hitting his bloodstream; it's been a full 24 hours since he's eaten.  Maybe it's the strangeness of the situation, being alone in a dark waiting room. too, alone except for Fusco, but he is seriously losing it.

Giggling, Nick waxes poetic.  "I was riding Billy, reverse cowboy.  Man, he loves that, loves to watch my ass," he wheezes, doubling over.

"It's a nice ass," Fusco offers, looking concerned.  "I've been checking it out."

Tears and snot stream down Nick's face and a logical part of his brain points out that he's about to hyperventilate; not that he much cares.  But apparently Fusco does care because he drags Nick close, tucking Nick's head beneath his chin, arms around him.

"Does Szymanski still have that cat?"

Nick nods, hoping Fusco won't mind the dampness transferring to his soft, expensive shirt.

"You know I was there when Syzmanski found him?"

Nick's heard the story but shakes his head, 'no' because Fusco is stroking his back.

"Well, about 8 years ago, guys like me and him were still being shuffled around to different precincts, different divisions.  Trying to find the best fit.  So we'd run into each other all the time."

Feeling like a kid getting a bedtime story, Nick whispers, "What was he like?"

Fusco chuckles.  "Same as now, I guess.  Quiet, serious.  Not a sharp dresser but he made a suit look good.  Always had his nose in a paperback.  Literature, mostly, not romance novels or da Vinci Code crap.  Personally, I had yet to develop a taste for bookishness."

He can tell Fusco's monitoring him, his breath, which is coming slower and easier.

"So, as junior detectives, we were always called out when shit went down during holidays, storms, the middle of the night so we both were in SoHo during a Nor'easter.  It was a human trafficking case gone bad in a major way, meaning casualties out wazoo."  Fusco sighs, puffing out his cheeks.  "In other words, it was grim and as it happened, an old sergeant caught us looking green around the gills.  Maybe he felt pity but more likely he didn't want us messing up his crime scene.  Regardless, he ordered us to check out the alley behind the building next door."

Nick nods.  He's been there, both sides.

"So there we are, skulking around, doing nothin';  I'd just lit a smoke when your guy screeches, bloody murder.  Doin' a sort of jig, no less."

Nick smiles against Fusco's ribs, knowing that the best part of the story's coming."

"So suddenly, Szymanski drops trou' right there in front of God and everyone, grabbing this tiny bit of orange scruff that had dug into his thigh hard enough to draw blood.  We booked it after that, me driving what seemed like hours for an all night vet clinic while he cuddled the little demon.  I suggested he call it Calvin, after his designer tighty whities and all."

Nick sits up, about to wipe his nose with the back of his sleeve except Fusco hands him some napkins.

"Thanks."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, I forgot about Donnelly arresting Reese in his search for The Man in the Suit. So alternate universe time, lol

It's not that he isn't aware of the cloud of suspicion that had clung to Fusco, vague whispers and outright accusations that he was a member of HR, a cloud that had finally dissipated upon his violent, vehement arrest of one Patrick Simmons for the murder of poor Joss Carter.  It's that Fusco now exudes kindness and reliability, enough so that Nick wonders at the transformation. 

A sudden jolt of guilt derails this train of thought.  "Fusco, I've been such a jerk...how come you're here?"  Dredging through his memory, he winces, adding, "Is it your son?"

Fusco's eyes crinkle when he smiles.  "No, Lee's fine, better than fine.  I'm here for Harold."

"Harold?"

Fusco thumbs through his phone, hands it over. 

Fusco and another man, older, with owlish eyes, tufty hair and a smile that could only described as radiant.  Matching suits and gold rings, they appear about to kiss.

"Your...your husband?"

"Going on three years now," Fusco replies, still beaming.  There are more photos to thumb through: a tiny flower girl with a large brown dog wearing matching roses, Riley and a beautiful woman at least a foot shorter, with flashing dark eyes, a young teen boy that's the spitting image of Fusco, laughing between his two dads.

"Congratulations!"

"You thought I was straight; no matter, I thought I was, too, for the longest," Fusco says agreeably, taking back his phone.  "Funny how things work out."

Nick contemplates Karen, who he could never be enough for though he wouldn't know why until after the marriage imploded.  "Been there."

Fusco nods.  "Harold's spine was jacked up already but he tripped on some ice last week.  Brushed himself off but next morning, his hands and feet were numb.  Spinal stenosis, they call it and it turned out there's a better treatment than what he got originally.  They replaced his C5 vertebra with this doohickey that will keep his cord from getting pinched.  Plus, they took out all these godawful pins that have been plaguing him for years.  Just a little rectangle of titanium and 6 screws instead." 

"Did the numbness go away?"

"Like magic, plus a lot of the pain.  He's weak as a kitten, though.  Physical therapy starts tomorrow, guess we'll be upstairs in the penthouse for another week or two, until he can walk again."

Still sore about the idea of Bill sharing a room with strangers, Nick asks, "The penthouse?"

Fusco blushes.  "Special suites on the top floor.  For high rollers, celebrities, uh, members of the board of trustees."

"So your Harold is...?"

"Two of the three, I guess," admits Fusco, squirming under Nick's patented stare.


	7. Chapter 7

He's giving Fusco the hairy eyeball, watching him squirm, just a little, like the idea of wealth is an embarrassment.  But Fusco's phone chirps like a little sparrow and Fusco looks at the screen, a beatific look replacing the sheepish.

"Harold's richer than God," he admits candidly.  "Doesn't matter, I'd have married him if he'd had just two quarters to rub together.  He was raised by his dad, a mechanic out in the sticks.  Wore him with a sling while he worked on cars, popped him in a playpen when he was working on heavy stuff."

Nick allows his expression to soften.  Fusco continues. "They've been working on the suite next to ours these past few days but this afternoon they started working double, no, triple time, a huge racket but to Harold, it's like a lullaby.  That's why I came down, to catch a break from the noise as much as to get a snack."

"I was lucky you did," Nick admits, patting Fusco's shoulder.  "Damned lucky.  I gotta admit I was starting to lose it back there at the coffee vending."

As if seeking a sort of confirmation, Fusco pats his phone where it now rests in a pocket of his leather jacket, just above his heart.  He leans close, sort of whispering.

"Nick, my life changed eight years ago, changed in ways you couldn't imagine and I got Good News I want to share with you."

Nick can feel the capital letters of 'Good News' and cringes.  "Thanks, Lionel, but Bill and I are both lapsed Catholics and that's all the religion we need," he tells him, firmly but politely.

Fusco laughs, really wheezing.  "No, guy, not that."  He pauses thoughtful.  "There's a higher power involved but not like that.  What I can tell you is that things are getting luckier, for you and me and everybody.  No shit."

"Bill wasn't lucky," Nick shoots back, sharper than he expected.

"I'm not talking about hurt guts," Fusco admits.  "Talking about the murder rate going down.  Talking about the ozone layer starting to repair itself and the Blue Whale making a comeback."

Silently they contemplate this.  Things Nick knows is verifiably true and startling to him, a consummate pessimist.  Bill, if Billy were here, sweet, sunny glass half full - he'd eat it up and think of more examples.  Hell, just the other day they'd talked idly about visiting Australia now that the Great Barrier Reef that had inexplicably roared back to life.

"Things like running into you, huh?"  It's weird but it feels like a weights lifting off him.  "Like your order, getting extra food.  Exactly what I like...hmm."  Nick points to the third bag and the untouched hot coffee.  "What about that?"

Fusco grins.  "That cute kid at the desk just started waving at you.  Maybe give it to them?"

Nick jumps to his feet, panicking until he sees Morgan's brilliant smile.  He grabs the coffee and bag.  "Thanks.  I guess I will."

Fusco stands, dusting himself off.  Finds a stray french fry in his shirt pocket, which he eats.  "Look, Harold and I are going to be here for at least a week, maybe more.  He doesn't want to leave using a walker so there's a ton of rehab waiting for him.  Do you think we can visit you and Szymanski?  Anybody who loves books the way they do..."

"Yeah, sure.  That would be great."

Fusco winks.  "Good."  His phone chirps again.  "That's my better half.  Hey, don't forget things are looking up!"  Fusco hurries towards the corridor, stopping short.  "Hey, do you guys like the beach?"

Odd, Nick thinks but he practically shouts, "Yeah, love it." 

He watches until Fusco's gone then trots towards the information desk.


	8. Chapter 8

Nervous, Nick approaches the customer service desk.  His mouth is dry and his palms are clammy.  Morgan's smiles reassures but he needs words, damn it, just the facts.

"Dr. Madani has another patient to see, a small  emergency so...."

"Bill?"

"Mr. William Szzzz...."

"Szymanski!"

Morgan graciously ignores his outburst.

"Mr. Szymanski is in excellent shape."

Nick slumps against the counter.  "Thank God," he murmurs, thinking of modern day atheists in modern day foxholes.

"Dr. Madani will meet you on the third floor,  Surgical Recovery Suite #7 in 15 minutes."

He remembers the McDonald's.  "Here, take this.  A gift from my friend."

Morgan accepts the coffee, wordlessly draining half the cup before exclaiming their thanks.  "The coffee vending is on the fritz again," they explain.  "Plus, that stupid blinking light gives me the creeps."

Nick hands them the bag.

Morgan jumps up and down. "OMG, pie!"

Two bites and it's gone, along with more coffee.  Brightening, Morgan looks asks,    "You and Mr. Fusco are friends?"

"He and Bill used to work together,"   
Nick replies vaguely.  "He's nice.  Quite kind," he says with greater confidence.

"Mr. Finch and Mr. Fusco are the best.  Most members of the Board of Trustees just show up for photo ops but not them."

Nick has ten minutes to waste, minutes he'd rather not waste pacing hospital corridors.  "How so?"

"They come at least twice a week to read to the kids.  To old folks, too.  And they both log lots of volunteer hours at the Ingram Memorial Knee Clinic."  Morgan leans closer, conspiratorially.  "You'd be shocked at how many New Yorkers get shot in the kneecaps."

Recalling the elusive Man in the Suit, Nick really isn't surprised. 

Morgan drains their cup, politely stifling a burp.  They frown.  "I'm sure gonna miss them."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, I was visiting Mr. Finch this morning and he said that he and  Mr. Fusco were going down to the Florida Keys.  He said..."

They close their eyes, thinking.

"He said that the City in February is fit for neither man nor beast and that if Dante Alighieri had lived here there would have been a tenth Circle of Hell."

Nick happens to agree and the thought of Bill having to recover in the coldest, slipperiest month makes him a little bit sick inside.  Had Fusco implied a visit when he'd thrown out that question about beaches?   Mentally, he rejects that notion.  Who could be that generous?  Plus, there's Calvin to think about; hard enough for Bill to be without his fur baby for the length of his hospitalization, much less the what's bound to lengthy recovery period.

A hand pats his.  "It's time."

Nick jumps.  "Suite 7, right?"

"Floor 3," Morgan says, wishing him luck but he's already gone.


	9. Chapter 9

He's trotting towards the bank of elevators, his oxfords screeching to a halt as he passes the coffee vending machine that had wronged him so cruelly the hour before. 

The machine is opened and all Nick can make of the first of two workers is his legs and the substantial crack revealed by sagging pants.  The second worker, passing tools to the first, seems more concerned by Nick's surprise than by her colleague's display of flesh. 

"Did it steal your money?", she asked, nodding towards the machine.

Nick nods.  She pulls out a dollar, hands it to him.  "Sorry 'bout that."

He examines the dollar like it's a scrap of parchment from an Egyptian tomb.  How many dollars had he lost to vending machines over the year?  He backs up, lost in thought, bumping hard against a ladder.  A flurry of curses, another worker, a woman with a long flurescent bulb in her hand, glaring down at him tiredly.

"Sorry, here, get yourself a drink," Nick says apologetically as he resumes his journey, Fusco's words echoing in his weary brain.

_Someone ought to fix it._

He doesn't believe in magic and of luck? Well, any good investigator might have a special pair of socks or a tie or hell, a rabbit's foot on a keychain.  Whatever Fusco was eluding too suddenly seems like something to consider, to puzzle over for how else can you explain maintenance workers hard at work at 10pm on a Thursday night?

*

Nick finds the correct room without having to ask, a minor miracle in and of itself. Leaning against the wall to catch his breath, he is immediately greeted by a man wearing clean scrubs and a saintly smile.

"Mr. Donnelly, I presume?"

Nick nods, unable to speak, the adrenaline of fear leaving his mouth a Sahara.  He does accept the surgeon's hand, pumping it firmly as he nods 'yes'.

Dr. Madani starts with an apology, an explanation about the emergency that had prevented them from meeting sooner; Nick's fingernails make dents in his palms to keep from shaking the man from of his courtly manners, to not scream, 'Just tell me Bill's ok!'

To give him credit, Madani changes his tact.  "Mr. Szymanski's appendix was inflamed to the point of bursting and nearby bowels were perforated, leaking their contents into his abdomen."

Nick's knees buckle but the surgeon catches him, guiding him into a stray wheelchair. 

"It wasn't from his previous injuries?"

Madani shrugs.  "Hard to say.  It might have or it may have been independent of his gunshot wounds.  I opened him up, expecting to find necrotic bowel but frankly, the injured area looked fine."

Peering down, he pats Nick's shoulder.  
"We got to him in time, Mr. Donnelly.  I expect your friend to make a complete recovery."

"Boyfriend," Nick says, he thinks quietly but it comes out loud.

"Boyfriend," smiles Madani, adding, "You are a lucky man, sir.  He's quite a sweet one."

"Oh?"

"We had chance to speak as the anesthesiologist was prepping him.  He was in terrible pain but all he asked was that I tell you how much he loves you...and someone named Calvin."

Nick sniffles and hiccups.  "Calvin's our cat."

Our cat.

Nick jokes all the time about Calvin, calling him, "Your cat," or "Your hellspawn," but yeah, damn straight he's Nick's cat, too.

And if Nick has anything to say about it, there's more changes coming, time to pull out the ring he's hidden in his sock drawer since they decided to move in together.  As his gran would say, 'Time to make an honest man of Bill.'  Along with such things as, 'You don't buy the cow if you get the milk for free'; point is, he and Bill are getting married if he has anything to do with it.  And with Calvin on his side, Nick feels like the luckiest man in the world.


	10. Chapter 10

Bill is pale, his freckles a series of constellations on his cheeks and wrists.  His dark auburn hair falls across his high forehead, limp and damp.  His chest gently rises and falls on it's own accord.

He's never looked more beautiful.

Dr. Tillman, Dr. Madani's assistant,  is explaining things but all Nick hears is the sweet whistle of Bill's deviated septum.  "Broke my nose but I won the fight," he'd told Nick their first sleepover, adding he'd been pretty big as a ten year old.  

Mindful of the pulse oximeter, Nick holds Bill's hand.

"Laparoscopic surgery is routine but this case was far from it," says  Dr. Tillman, explaining that they had opened Bill up, that there are eight staples beneath the neat swathe of bandages. A  pair of tubes protruding out, with gold ball-sized bulbs  at the ends, already collecting a pale pink fluid.

Nick times his breathing with Bill's, he's starting to hear more.

"He's on a boatload of morphine," Tillman adds, interrupted by a nurse who hands her a slip of paper.  Tillman reads it and grins.  "It's your lucky day!  Repairs were completed on a suite upstairs.  We'll hold Mr. Szymanski here for another hour.  If he still looks this good, you'll be in the Penthouse in time for breakfast."

She must see something in Nick's woefully unschooled face because she squeezes his shoulder.  "Bill is nil by mouth for at least a week.  I was talking about you getting some grub and settling in.  You can stay with him, sleep in a bed pushed next to his.  After a few days, you can even have a pet room in."

"Calvin.  Our cat," Bill replies, accepting their additional 'luck'.  

"Calvin?"

"Bill, Billy!" Nick practically sobs.

"Calvin ok?  Where are we?"

"Cal is fine, baby.  Just as fat and sassy as ever.  We're in the hospital..."

Bill's eyelashes flutter; his pupils are huge. "You hurt?  Nick?  Did you get shot?"

Nick leans over, precipitously balanced to kiss.  "You had a bad appendix, sweetheart.  I'm fine, I promise."

Bill sighs, then smiles.  His lips are cracked but it's gorgeous.  "Promise?"

"I promise."


End file.
